


even the nights, they could get better

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Typical Violence, Gen, Mania, Self Harm, Violence Towards Disabled People, poor coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5129546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“I think we should take the case,” said Foggy, voice full of unwavering conviction.</em><br/>At once, the sparse ‘bad idea’ signs in Matt’s mind flickered into rare neon brilliance. He could have - should have - walked away right then. Instead, he flicked a switch and powered them down. This case was too important to succumb to weakness.<br/>“I agree,” said Matt. “Let’s do it.”</p><p> </p><p>In which Matt's latent bipolar disorder is triggered by a defense trial regarding the murder of a boy who had autism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT THEN.
> 
> So I have literally been wanting to write a bipolar Matt fic that tackled the issue head on 5ever and I could not for the life of me figure out how to approach it. Specifically my problem was that I had barely ever written a real plot before ever in my life and I had no faith in myself whatsoever that I could write one.
> 
> It remains to be seen if I actually can. We can only hope, yes?
> 
> Anyway I totally wasn't going to post this until forever from now because I was like 'well I'll post it when the document hits six thousand words' which I thought would be forever and a half in the future and guess what it was a lot closer into the future than that. Like today. What is my life.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Intense descriptions of mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, self-harm, insomnia, murder of people with developmental disabilities, blood, abuse, canon typical violence. In subsequent chapters I will add any trigger warnings that I think are necessary.
> 
> Much inspiration for the structure of this fic goes to lazarov's wonderful fic 'Rescue Flare.' Go check it out!
> 
> Title is from Ted Leo and the Pharmacist's song 'Me and Mia.' You guys have no idea how many times I listened to their album 'Shake the Sheets' while writing this. Answer: too many times. Also I listened to the entire discography of Motion City Soundtrack. Am I saying that I'm a mentally ill person who has some problems with eating? I'm not NOT saying that.

_What's eating you alive might help you to survive._ \- **Ted Leo and the Pharmacists**

**********

_Fourteen was the first time he was on his back, unmoving and heavy. This unbearable state had first blossomed in his peers like putrid flowers. The sticky tendrils latched onto him next and squeezed until his lungs gradually collapsed in on themselves, dragging him down with them. He lay awake in bed for nights on end, unseeing eyes turned towards the ceiling, and willed himself to breathe. In his head, Stick's words echoed over and over:_

_'Get up.' A kick to the stomach. 'Get up!'_

_Unlike many of his peers, one afternoon he finally did._

_**********_

 

Mrs. Susan Michaels was a small woman in her forties with flowery perfume. She was shivering and sweating when Matt and Foggy came in to greet her. Her arm was handcuffed to the table like Karen’s had been on the day they had all met. Now, just as then, the cuffing seemed inappropriate. This woman was scared witless. Matt held his hand out in the general direction of her uncuffed left arm. She shook it with a clammy hand.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Michaels. My name is Matt Murdock.”

Foggy held out his hand next. “Foggy Nelson. We represent Nelson and Murdock: Attorneys at Law.”

“We’re here because you were referred to us as a potential client,” added Matt. They both sat down on the other side of the table.

“You’re the lawyers the policeman was talking about?” Her voice was soft, and wavered when she spoke.

“The very same,” said Matt.

“The policeman. . .he said you would help me.”

“If your case is a good fit for our firm, we will do everything in our power to help you,” said Foggy.

“Why don’t you start out by telling us why you’re here, Mrs. Michaels?” asked Matt.

Mrs. Michaels took a shaky breath. “My son, Jeffrey, was found dead last night. He was floating in the East River. Police said when they came by the house this morning that it looked like a homicide.” She started to choke back tears. “My son was such a sweet boy. . .”

“Are you a suspect in the murder, Mrs. Michaels?” asked Foggy, softly. The woman’s tears escalated. They flowed down her face in hot streams that gave the air a salty tang of despair. Matt tilted his head ever so slightly to zone in on her heartbeat. It beat steady and fast like a hummingbird’s wings. Nervous but truthful.

“I would - I would never want to hurt my son,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. They were fast replaced by more. “I was so careful to protect him from anyone that might hurt him. There are sick people in this world who have it out for kids like him. You see it on the news and just pray it never happens to you.” She exhaled a trembling breath. “My son had autism.”

Oh, _fuck_.

“Mrs. Michaels, would you excuse us for a moment? My associate and I need to discuss your case amongst ourselves.” He gripped Foggy’s arm like a vice on their way out.

“I swear I didn’t know anything,” said Foggy before Matt could say a word. His heart leapt - a lie. Matt gave him an intimidating look that had frightened many criminals on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Admirably, Foggy didn’t cower. “Ok that isn’t true - God that face is not necessary, Matt - Brett had just told me that it was a case of interest that involved a murder. I had no idea -”

“We can’t take this case, Foggy,” said Matt, shaking his head. “I can’t take this case.”

“Brett thinks she is innocent.”

“And if she isn’t? You heard her in there - you see it on the news all the time. It’s usually the parents that kill them, Foggy!” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it, wishing that he had something to hit or -

“Was she lying about anything she said?” asked Foggy, interrupting Matt’s stress spiral.“Because you would know. If she is, I promise that we can walk out right now.”

Matt deflated; it was difficult to be angry in the face of reasonable questions. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, feeling wrung out. “She wasn’t lying,” he admitted. “Everything she said was true - or at least she believed it was.”

“If that’s the case then I think we have a duty to defend her.” said Foggy. “Otherwise the real sickos who did this could get off scott free and they could do it again.”

“If she’s guilty -”

“Then we negotiate a plea bargain. At worst, we’re the lawyers who told her to admit guilt.”

“And at best we’re the lawyers who opened up a real investigation,” murmured Matt.

“I think we should take the case,” said Foggy, voice full of unwavering conviction.

At once, the sparse ‘bad idea’ signs in Matt’s mind flickered into rare neon brilliance. He could have - should have - walked away right then. Instead, he flicked a switch and powered them down. This case was too important to succumb to weakness.

“I agree,” said Matt. “Let’s do it.”

**********

 

_Matt’s dad rarely talked about his mom. He was honest when Matt asked if she was dead - ‘No, Matty, your mom’s alive’ - but his answers never stretched beyond that. For nine years, that answer was enough. He loved his father, loved the smell of his scotch and blood and the feel of his bruised and callous hands. His face was scratchy on Matt’s palms; there were hills and valleys of scars all over it. They had a home in each other, and that was all that mattered._

_On his tenth birthday, Matt decided that he wanted answers anyway. Being in double-digits meant something. He was practically an adult now and deserved adult answers to adult questions. So, after he and his father had both eaten a piece of cake from the nearby corner store, Matt said, “Dad, can we talk about mom?”_

_His dad’s heart rate increased. This knowledge of his anxiety was entirely new to Matt. It was not information that was easy to divulge. He sighed._

_“I suppose you’re old enough now. What do you want to know, Matty?”_

_“What was she like?”_

_“She was a very. . .different sort of woman,” said Jack, gently. “Wrapped you up in her world until you couldn’t tell left from right. Loved you like you were the only man alive. Beautiful and smart - I tell you, if you grow up good looking it’s from her side of the family.” He tapped Matt’s chin with his knuckle. “She loved you a lot too.”_

_“Why did she leave?”_

_“She said she was sick and didn’t know what to do. I could tell she was in a lot of pain and was scared and I didn’t want her to stay that way. So I said if she needed to go, she could go. Thought she would come back but. . .well it doesn’t matter. We have each other, don’t we, champ?”_

_Matt grinned. “Always, dad.”_

**********

Matt was pulled taut that night, too wired to to sit comfortably inside his skin. He stood on the roof of his apartment complex, suited up and sniffing the air. The wet trash stench of the East River was unmistakable. Cars and bicycles rushed over the bridge, New York City fast, an echoing electric 'swish' as each vehicle passed. Pedestrians strolled on the walking path, quiet and unseen. There were a lot of suicides that went unnoticed by most people on the Queensboro bridge.

Matt was not most people.

It didn't take very long for Mrs. Michaels’ arrest to become highly publicized. A mother killing her own child was sensational, sexy. Within minutes of the news breaking, there were hashtags on Twitter. Matt was sniffing the East River for a single thing: copycats. So far, there was nothing. Hopefully this would be an isolated instance.

Logically, focusing on the East River was useless. Even if there were copycats, they probably wouldn't operate from the Queensboro bridge. Obviously they would get caught. Yet Matt's brain was holding onto the East River with a vice grip, a place where something Happened. He was tied to it now, as if with string.

A harsh wind blew in from the direction of the Hudson. It made his skin sting with its chemical humidity. From a distance, he heard freight ships coming in. They cut through the water ungracefully, rolling it as if it were brought to a boil. These were the biggest freight ships which signified one thing - it was five AM. When he had come back from rounds (no punches thrown - his costume was enough nowadays to get kids running scared) the two am ships had been coming to shore. He had been standing on top of his building for at least three hours, entirely lost in thought.

It was definitely time for him to go to bed. As Matt climbed down from the ledge, the joints of his knees and elbows cracked. He realized he was shivering; October was not an ideal time to stand outside without moving for three hours. The inside of his apartment was temperate and soothing, a tailored environment for automatic sleep. Strangely, going inside didn’t make him feel tired tonight.

Matt stripped down to his boxers. He folded his suit, and carefully put it in its box. Then he got in bed, and waited for exhaustion to arrive.

It never came.

_****  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Despite sleeping maybe an hour the previous night, Matt didn’t feel tired at all when he woke early at seven am. He wasn’t sore either which was extremely uncommon, especially on mornings after he did rounds in Hell’s Kitchen. His brain crowded out his exhaustion with thoughts about the case he was preparing for Mrs. Michaels and the evidence he would need to defend her properly.

There was still far too little that he and Foggy knew regarding Jeffrey’s mysterious death. Additional questioning was in order as well as assessment of evidence surrounding the case that the police had gathered. No doubt that their case was either being built or dismantled forty-eight hours post-mortem. He decided to go to work early to work on the case since he was awake anyway.

He dressed with great purpose that morning, mindful of the colors written on his braille labels and feeling all of his shirts for wrinkles. By the time all his ducks were in a row, he felt very professional. On mornings like this, he was a little disappointed that he couldn’t see his own reflection.

His walk to work was surprisingly noisy. Usually he was able to concentrate on his own thoughts by listening to the soft ‘tap tap’ of his cane against the backdrop of the city at large. Today the noise seemed aggressive as though it was determined to punch him in the face. He could barely think about anything amidst the incessant chatter and reckless driving.

Senses clouded, he didn’t notice that the crowd he was moving in had stopped. Matt walked into the street and was narrowly missed by an aggressive cab driver. His saving grace was a middle aged woman who pulled him away from the curb by the arm.

“The light hasn’t turned yet,” she said. “You almost got run over. Do you need help crossing the street?”

Matt’s face became hot. This woman thought he was an invalid. “No. No thanks. I uh. Got it. Thanks for pulling me out of the way.”

“Alright. You’re welcome,” she said. Then she turned away and buried herself in the crowd, another body in a sea of city folk.

The only other time he had ever walked into the street like that was when he was sick. He didn’t feel sick at all - actually, he felt the peak of health - so this was disconcerting. Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t some sort of radio; it couldn’t have just turned up the volume for the day. Maybe it had just been too long since he had meditated. It had never been quite this loud sans meditation before but there was a first time for everything.

The smell of coffee, flowery perfume, and apple shampoo cut through the chatter of the city. Matt could always smell Nelson and Murdock before he could ‘see’ it. If Foggy or Karen knew this, he would probably never hear the end of ‘Murdock’s his own seeing eye dog!’ The comparison to a dog (loyal, protective, well trained, great senses) would be uncomfortably apt and he wouldn’t even be able to refute it properly. So he allowed himself to have his little comfort in private.

When he reached their sign, he ran his fingers over the lettering. This was another comfort, but one he didn’t mind anyone knowing about. He was damn proud of all the work they put into getting this sign on their office. Bringing down Fisk was no small feat, and the reputation it had brought them was more than deserved. The smooth, cool lettering was a reminder of all the good they had done and all the good they had the potential to do.

He stepped inside the building and closed the door. The noise of the city dropped to the point where he could easily tune it out. Perhaps he had just been imagining its loudness because he was so lost in thought about the case that any distraction frustrated him. He climbed the stairs, guided by his cane the whole way. Its sound was familiar and comforting; though he didn’t technically ‘need’ it, it was still nice to be able to relax his senses while he walked. It gave him more room in his mind to concentrate on other things.

Matt entered the office, and closed the door behind him quietly. Karen looked up from her work when he entered.

“Good morning, Matt!” she said brightly. “You’re in early.”

“So are you.”

“Oh, you know. Just working on some. . .schoolwork.”

Karen was in online continuing education to be a paralegal. However, she was in the office early for the same reason Matt was - insomnia. Her heart beat more slowly when she was tired, which was a lot of the time.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“I don’t blame you,” said Karen sympathetically. “I heard this new case is going to be. . .difficult. I made coffee if you need some. It’s hazelnut flavored.”

He quirked a smile at her. “Thanks, Karen. Tell me when Foggy comes in, ok? I’ll be wearing headphones and concentrating so I might not be able to. . .”

Use my super-hearing was the unfinished awkward addition. Karen knew about his. . .abilities but it was still difficult to discuss them outright.

“Sure,” she said, and with that, Matt disappeared into his office to work on the case.

**********

The details of Mrs. Michaels’ examination by the police were in his email this morning. Normally sensitive information like this would be sent by fax, but Brett felt like they were trustworthy enough to have a digital copy. This was a great weight off of Matt’s shoulders because it meant the document did not have to be tediously transcribed into braille for him to read. His sense of touch was very delicate, but not enough to accurately process the written word in ink all of the time.

Mrs. Michaels was a single mother living in affordable housing here in Hell’s Kitchen. She worked full time as a waitress at a Ray’s Pizza just outside of the Kitchen in lower Manhattan. Her son, Jeffrey, was severely developmentally disabled and nonverbal. He had not returned to public school this September. Instead, Mrs. Michaels had sent him to a thirty day residential program to see if it would help. Several days prior to his death, Jeffrey came home from the program.

On the night of Jeffrey’s death, an altercation was heard by the neighbors from Mrs. Michaels’ apartment. The neighbors reported crying and screaming as well as the sound of items being broken. Heavy footsteps followed by lighter footsteps were heard running through the building. Someone called the cops, but both Mrs. Michaels and her son were gone. She was back in her apartment by morning. When her son’s body was found, the police came back to the apartment complex and arrested her.

When he finished reading, Matt leaned back in his chair, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His stomach was rolling with disgust and his brain was flitting from thought to thought so rapidly he could hardly keep up. He willed himself to concentrate.

On loose examination, it did appear that Mrs. Michaels could have killed her son. However, a closer look presented a more vague story. Jeffrey could have run off and gotten murdered by strangers. He could have been assaulted by a cop or some other person that claimed authority over him. The Queensboro bridge was a long distance for a kid to walk too, especially a developmentally disabled kid in the middle of the night. Mrs. Michaels probably would have been too tired from her shift at work to walk that far. . .

A knock on his door startled him. “Matt, Foggy’s here. Do you want him to come in or do you want to meet him out here?”

“He can come in. Thanks, Karen.”

Foggy entered the room, and closed the door behind him. Immediately the room warmed up as though a cloud had passed from the sun. Matt’s neck relaxed, and he cracked it. It was nice to have a best friend as sunny as Foggy.

“Hey, buddy. How are you holding up?” He sat down in the chair across from Matt.

“I’ve been reading the notes Brett sent over all morning. What time is it?”

Foggy checked his watch. “Ten.”

Matt groaned softly. “You have two hours of heavy reading ahead of you.”

“I did some of it last night while you were probably off, you know.” Foggy twirled his index finger around in a spiral and landed it on Matt’s desk with a small ‘thunk.’ Matt laughed. The knot in his stomach untied.

“Was that a backflip?”

“It was if I stuck the landing.”

“Seven out of ten.”

“It was an elaborate hand gesture signifying adventure that in no way was meant to resemble a backflip.” Matt could tell that Foggy was grinning too.

“No adventure last night. Low level criminals go running nowadays when they see the shadow of the devil atop a building.”

“Very dramatic.”

“It gets the job done,” said Matt, shrugging. “So. . .what do you think of the case?”

Foggy’s body became more tense. He rubbed the back of his neck.“It’s definitely not cut and dried.”

“No, it’s not. I. . .I think we have a case for her defense though. So far, there are enough gaps in the witness accounts. . .” Matt laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them. The knot in his stomach tied itself again.

Foggy took a long breath in and out. “There’s no proof that she did it and plenty of proof that she didn’t.”

“I was listening for copycats last night,” Matt admitted. “Nothing so far.”

Foggy’s demeanor changed in a way that told Matt he was about to say something Matt really wouldn’t like.

“I don’t think we need to be looking for copycats. I think. . .I think we might need to comb through some police files to look at recent murders of developmentally disabled kids to see if we can find a connection. . .or if to see if they have one in the works.”

Matt resisted the urge to bury his face in his palms. The room felt like it was shrinking around him. His thoughts began to race again, nonsensical and anxious. He willed them to be quiet - there was no time for that sort of nonsense.

“Matt, are you ok? You look really pale. If this is too hard on you, I can look through the files alone-”

“No,” said Matt, forcibly changing his expression into something calm and professional. “I can do it, Foggy. I’m just tired today.” He gave a wry smile. “Occupational hazard when you jump around in a devil costume all night.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

His exhaustion took on an air of near-euphoria by the time he suited up that night. Parts of his body - crackling joints, sore back, crust at the corners of his eyes - said that it was time to sleep. However, Matt’s brain was wide awake in a way that told him that no sleep was on the agenda. At least, not yet.

The cacophony of sounds that had assaulted him that morning had dissipated into the ether. The city was his turf now, familiar, shadowed. His anger, ever present, bubbled to the surface as he searched for a criminal who would provide him release. He stalked Hell’s Kitchen via the roofs its shops, offices, and apartments. At the very least, the hungry, angry part of his heart would be satisfied by inspiring fear into the heart of someone who deserved it.

A woman’s scream echoed a block away. He pulled his billy clubs out of his pocket and lept into action, somersaulting over three buildings. Besides ensuring the accuracy of his landing, the flips heightened his adrenaline rush. He arrived on scene just in time for two assholes to pull a knife on the poor woman. Matt didn’t have time for dramatic intimidation tactics. He lept off of the building and landed square on the shoulders of the smaller criminal.

A swift kick to the hand was enough to disarm the man. Another kick broke his hand; he cried out pathetically in pain. Matt hit him in the face with a club for good measure. He turned to face the other assailant, fast as lightning. Their sparring was elegant like a dance and allowed the woman to run away without anyone noticing. Matt had to resist laughter as he darted around his opponent; this was all so easy -

Pain ricocheted through his side, sharp and fresh. The smell of his own blood hit his nostrils as he felt his side leak. Somehow, these cronies had found a chink in his armor and stabbed him. Matt was no stranger to stabbings but they never ceased to anger him with the audacity the perpetrators had in stabbing a masked man. He deftly knocked the man who stabbed him to the ground using only one leg and proceeded to kick him in the teeth this time. Then he turned his efforts on the other asshole. No more games. Time to end this.

Matt backflipped and pushed the other man to the ground by the neck using the leverage his entire body provided. He hit him with a billy club in the back of the head and stomped on his forearm for good measure. The ulna snapped satisfyingly. Before either man could get up, Matt found his way up the closest fire escape and disappeared onto the roof.

The building he had chosen had a nice dip in the roof that would hide him well. Judging by the smell, some lovely person had a community garden up here. Pumpkins and squash were flourishing this time of year. It was a serene autumn atmosphere, perfect for taking a moment to breathe and assess the damages. He pressed his fingers into the gash in his armor to get a sense of the depth, and drew them away while hissing in pain. At least three and a half inches and moderately deep - definite need of stitches. Thankfully, Hell’s Kitchen was fortunate enough to have a nurse up to task for patching up heroes.

**********

The new ‘hospital for heroes’ was in an underground bunker somewhere in midtown Manhattan. Its location was hidden with some sort of cloaking technology created by Tony Stark and it was funded with money from S.H.I.E.L.D. As medical establishments went, it couldn’t have been very expensive. While the vigilante population was growing, it was still small. Claire was the only staff member - code name: The Night Nurse. She still worked part time in the morning at a local hospital, but she owned a pager that was accessible to all of the heroes any time of the day provided they had a chip in their skin and knew how to use it.

Matt’s journey through the tunnels was surreal tonight. Without stimuli to distract him, his mind started to race as it had several times already that day. The words were barely stringing together this time, however, as though his exhaustion and his alertness were battling inside his mind. He was drunk on adrenaline and something extra, pulled in the right direction towards the hospital only by the small chip that had been implanted in his skin. Alongside contacting Claire, it offered guidance in case a hero was not of sound mind while trying to find his location.

He had to stop and laugh for a moment at the thought. Matt Murdock, not of sound mind. If Foggy or Karen ever knew, that would be another thing that he would never hear the end of. Not that it even applied to this situation. He was just. . .tired.

When he reached the edge of the tunnel, he stood one foot in, one foot out and smiled a lazy smile. His racing thoughts had been replaced by a brain full of soft cotton. “Hey, Claire.” He showed her his bloody hand. “Got stabbed.”

She led him by the arm to the bed. “I see that. Are you able to get undressed so I can see the wound?”

Her voice was steady and slow as though she thought Matt might not understand what she was saying.

“Of course. That’s not. . .that’s never been a problem.” He flipped down his cowl and unzipped the back. Suddenly, pain shot through his side. A cry of pain exited his lips. With gentle fingers, Claire finished unzipping it and pulled the suit away from his body.

“You realize you’re not invincible like Jessica and Luke, right? You can bleed if you get stabbed.”

Matt hummed noncommittally. He didn’t bother pretending that he was looking at her. She pressed at various places on his head. “What year is it?” she asked mysteriously.

“Uh.” It took a minute for Matt to pull it out of his mush brain. “2015.”

“What is your name?”

“Matt Murdock. What is the purpose of -”

“Who is the president?” she continued.

“Barack Obama. Why -”

“Checking for brain damage. Your eyes are bugging out of your head and your words are fast and slurring. When was the last time you slept?” She checked his pulse with two fingers on his throat.

“Yesterday. I feel great though. Probably could go. . .another day.” He yawned, betraying his body’s exhaustion. “My brain could go another day,” he added as an addendum.

She turned and began rifling through a drawer that contained a lot of metal. Probably staples or a needle. “How long did you sleep yesterday? Honestly.”

“An hour,” he admitted. She brought a threaded needle over to him and prodded his side. This time, he didn’t wince when she touched the cut. “I’m fine.”

“I think it’s about time that we eliminate those words from your vocabulary.” She skillfully pulled the needle through his flesh several times. “You very obviously need rest or you’re going to get hurt again. I say this not just as your nurse but as your friend.” She tied off the stitches and put sticky gauze over the wound. “Try to keep off the street for a few days so you don’t ruin my work.”

Matt ran his fingers over the gauze. He could feel the neat, precise stitches underneath. “Thank you, Claire,” he said, making great effort to say it in her vague direction.

“I told you. I’ll be there anytime you need me.” Matt stumbled as he hopped down off the bed. “This includes giving you a ride home tonight.” She slung his arm over her shoulder before he could protest. “Come on, hero. Let’s get you to bed.”

A single private, hazy thought drifted through his mind as they trudged through the long corridors. This feeling had happened before. Only last time he hadn’t had Claire by his side.

He had been all alone.

**********

 

_Matt came home from his first vigilante act with blood on his hands. It was congealing by the time he got to his window, so he had to open it with his elbows to get inside. Once he got in, he shut the window, removed his mask, and exhaled until all of the air was out of his lungs._

_What next?_

_His brain, hazy on adrenaline and buzzing like a bee, guided him instinctively towards the shower. The smell of blood trailed after him; he was probably leaking it all over the floor. He stripped off his clothes in the bathroom, careful to minimize the amount of clotting he got on his shirt. The sound of the shower pounding against its plastic walls drowned out the sound of his snoring neighbors. He stepped inside, and let the spray and the steam rush over him._

_There was a lot more blood on his body than he initially thought. It mixed with the shower’s steam to create sickening iron-saturated fumes. The congealed blood of the little girl’s abuser took at least ten minutes to scrape off. He prayed to god that it didn’t mix with any of his own fluids. In the heat of the moment, putting the man’s blood on his face felt right; in the aftermath of the rush, it just felt fucking stupid. That foul man was probably crawling with disease, and now his fluids had been inside Matt’s mouth._

_He spit water violently onto the shower floor as if that would make him clean. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it. He had enough filth on him without vomit too._

_Once his skin was all clean, Matt ran his fingers over his shedding scrapes and lacerations. He hissed in pain when he reached the largest one on his shoulder. It could technically require stitches, but since he couldn’t reach his back with both hands, Matt would have to do without. Hospitals would ask questions he didn’t want to answer, and he didn’t have health insurance yet anyway. Gauze would be easier and cheaper._

_Shaking slightly, Matt sunk to the floor of the shower. He let the water pound on his face in uneven spurts while he ran his fingers over another laceration on his stomach. It was still bleeding, but it shouldn’t be a problem as long as he wore an undershirt tomorrow._

_Fuck, how was he supposed to explain this to Foggy?_

_His breath was coming in stops and starts, gasping and rasping against the water running down his face. He coughed and spit into the drain again. His mouth tasted like dry grass and blood. Disgusting._

_Matt upturned his wrist; it was blissfully clean, smooth. He ran his fingers and his thumb up and down his sensitive forearm. Amid the chaos and the injuries he didn’t plan or ask for, the fear and panic and necessary sacrifice, the blood that wasn’t his and the imposing noise of the world - this, this he could keep. This was a gift._

_What was it Saint Catherine had said? “The more they have scorned pleasure and been willing to suffer, the more they have lost suffering and gained pleasure."_

_He marked his virgin skin with all five nails, claiming it for his own._

 


	4. Chapter 4

Matt’s dreams were incredibly vivid that night, euphoria bleeding into fear, shadowy figures at the edge watching, watching. He did not wake on his own; rather, he stayed dead to the world until his dreams echoed, ‘Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.’

Foggy. Foggy was wonderful. . .swirls of deep purple formed a vague mental image of his best friend.

‘Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.’

Wait, no. That wasn’t part of his dream. The voice was outside of himself - his phone. He startled awake and fumbled around for it. His fingers pressed clumsily at the screen until his phone accepted the call with a soft ‘beep.’

“Hello?”

“Hey. Did you just wake up?”

“Uh. . .what time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.” Matt emitted a small groan that he hoped was not audible. His effort was not successful. “I take it that that sound wasn’t from sleeping with a pretty girl last night?”

“I’m coming in to work,” he said, avoiding the question. “I’ll be a half an hour. Sorry for being in so late.”

“Are you bleeding?”

Matt sat up, and rubbed at his eyes. “No. Claire stitched me up. It was just a small stabbing.”

“I swear you say that like you got a papercut.”

“It doesn’t hurt very much.” He yawned. “I’m fine.”

“The two most meaningless words in Matt Murdock’s vocabulary. Ok, take your time. Karen and I have found some information but we don’t have any meetings scheduled today.”

“Ok. Bye, Foggy.”

“Bye.”

Matt stretched his arms above his head, wincing at the pain in his side. The smell of his dressings hit his nostrils with a punch. He really needed a shower.

**********

Hell’s Kitchen was much quieter now that he had gotten some sleep. Matt walked through the city with great relief - today was definitely not a day that would involve stepping out in front of a car. Despite his self-assurance in his current capabilities, he couldn’t keep that moment out of his head. Something was very wrong with what happened, and it was difficult to brush it off like it was nothing. The only conclusions he kept coming back to involved him either being infected with some sort of non-painful ear infection or-

No. He wasn’t going to entertain his other idea. There was no time in his life to be dealing with something less. . .acute. If he was having. . .problems. . .waiting it out would eventually make them leave. He certainly wasn’t going to extrapolate a whole episode of. . .whatever. . .from a misjudgement of traffic anyway. Thinking about it too much would probably just make a problem where one didn’t exist.

Nothing was wrong.

He was fine.

**********

_“As a class, we’re going to take the Beck Depression Inventory this morning. Once we tally our anonymous results and put them in a spreadsheet for analysis, we will use the information to talk about statistical significance.”_

_Matt ran his fingers over the sheet, printed in braille specifically for his use. A test he didn’t want to take printed in a format only he could read. Welcome to college._

_Right off the bat, the questions were incredibly personal and uncomfortable. Did other people think about their sadness this much? Matt didn’t take a whole lot of time out of his day to think about any of his emotions._

_‘I do not feel sad’ had a zero next to it. He circled the answer. Hopefully he hadn’t already failed._

_Next one: discouragement about the future. Nope._

_‘As I look back on my life, all I can see are a lot of failures. . .’_

_That one was a two. Ok so the bigger numbers meant that he had failed, not the smaller ones. He circled ‘I do not feel like a failure,’ but kept his number two for a mental tally._

_‘I don’t get real satisfaction out of anything anymore. . .’_

_‘I feel guilty all of the time. . .’_

_‘I expect to be punished. . .’_

_‘I am disgusted with myself. . .’_

_All given fake zeroes. Next question: suicide. He would never attempt suicide - that would send him straight to Hell._

_He had thought about it though. . . .fake zero._

_At the inventory, he had lied his way into a two and had actually gotten a 28. Moderate depression. He rolled his eyes, an expression conveniently hidden by his sunglasses._

_What a bullshit assessment._

**********

When he got to the office, he immediately sensed that the atmosphere was tense. Both Karen and Foggy smelled like nervous sweat and the room was approximately 0.3% warmer than it would be from body heat. Without saying hello he simply said, “What’s wrong?”

“You should sit down,” said Karen, her voice shaking slightly. She led him delicately to the chair at her desk.

“What’s going on?”

Foggy put his hand on Matt’s shoulder and squeezed. “There’s been another one,” he said, quietly. “Another kid. Found in the Hudson.”

Matt dug his nails into his thighs. “Just like Jeffrey?”

“Yeah,” said Foggy, mouth muffled by the fingers he had pressed to it in upset. “Just like Jeffrey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact in my college writing in the sciences class they made us take a depression inventory for statistical analysis.
> 
> I also take one every time I have to go to the psychiatrist. They are awful.
> 
> Another fun fact I actually pulled up the inventory and scored it for Matt. Because I am a Real Writer Dedicated to Research.


	5. Chapter 5

The boy that had been killed this time was nine. His name was Mark and, like Jeffrey, he had a severe developmental disability and was nonverbal. Matt read the articles about the crime with disgust. He clicked viciously through each one until there weren’t any more to read without getting redundant information.

None of them bothered to describe his appearance so that Matt could picture his face in his mind. As the Hudson wasn’t within the jurisdiction of the police in Hell’s Kitchen(and he wasn’t even assigned to this case), he doubted that he would be able to obtain detailed, unemotional information regarding what the boy looked like.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask Foggy or Karen.

Matt had holed himself up in his office shortly after receiving the news and spent twenty minutes resisting the urge to pace and wreck the entire room. The world had been so much quieter that morning and it had been easy to assume that everything was back to normal. Now his skin was crawling as if a nest of spiders had burst inside of him.

Foggy had assumed once that he didn’t get the spins because he was blind. This was entirely wrong - Matt got spins that knocked him flat on his back exactly because every part of his body was incredibly sensitive. It was like this with everything - it hurt acutely when he got punched, the taste of gravel and filth sometimes made him vomit in alleys after fights, and he could smell dried blood on his clothes even after he washed or dry-cleaned them. He ignored, ignored, ignored it because he had duties to uphold and a sense of normalcy to maintain.

He had no choice but to believe his. . .episodes. . .were the same way. Sure he had days like today (and yesterday. . .and the day before) where they felt as intense as anything but that didn’t mean they required his attention. Called for it, sure, but giving attention to anything he was experiencing was an offered privilege, not a response to a demand.

Just because it was all in his head didn’t mean it was a fucking hostage situation.

An objectively soft knock at his door made him wince. He realized his hands were balled up in his hair and he was breathing much faster than normal. Matt removed his hands from his hair and smoothed it into something that probably looked reasonable. The person at the door knocked again - Foggy.

“Matt, can I come in?”

“Yeah. Sure,” said Matt, aiming for casual. Foggy came in the office, closed the door, and sat down. Odd. “Why did you shut the door?”

“I thought you might want to have some. . .privacy for this conversation. Karen doesn’t know you like I do, and there might be some things you aren’t ready to talk about with her.”

Foggy tapped his fingers on his thigh, noticeably uncomfortable. A weight dropped in Matt’s stomach. He wasn’t ready to talk about this with Foggy either. Not again.

“Like what?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“I texted Claire after you told me you got stabbed last night. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t, you know, lying about how badly you were hurt and coming into the office anyway.”

“I’m sure she told you I’m the picture of health, right? Besides the stab wound,” he said, quirking a nervous smile. This didn’t lighten the mood at all. Foggy pressed on, heart pounding nervously in Matt’s ears.

“This isn’t funny, Matt. Do you remember what happened that night?”

“No,” Matt admitted.

“She said you seemed really confused, almost like you had brain damage. When she asked you about it, you told her you hadn’t been sleeping.”

“I don’t see why that’s a big deal,” said Matt. “It was just one night and I’m fine now.”

“It’s a big deal if your insomnia is making you get stabbed, Matt,” said Foggy, clearly exasperated. “But that’s not the point.”

“What _is_ the point?” said Matt, because dammit Foggy had dug this hole himself and Matt was not going to pick up a shovel to help him unearth whatever he was trying to find.

“I just think, you know. . .I can’t help but think back to what hell on earth midterms and finals weeks were like for you in law school. Or those first weeks we were at Landman and Zac. You didn’t sleep much for days on end and you weren’t eating and all your smiles just seemed plastered onto your face. And then at the end of the rush it would be like you caught the flu and you wouldn’t get out of bed. It wasn’t healthy, Matt.”

Foggy’s voice was so earnest and loving that it was hard to not wrap himself up in it like a blanket. Too bad compulsive denial won out over allowing someone to worry about him every single time.

“I don’t see what that has to do with me getting stabbed,” Matt lied. “It was just one mistake. It’s not. . .well I mean it is a pattern but not in the way you’re thinking.”

Foggy sighed. “Ok, if you really can’t manage the maturity to talk about this like family right now then we’re going to talk about it as legal partners. We own a firm together, Murdock, and I need you on your A-game. Going forty-eight hours with no sleep and getting stabbed because you can’t think straight is not acceptable. It’s unprofessional.”

There was no arguing with that logic. “You’re right. It won’t happen again, Foggy.”

“I want to believe you, Matt,” said Foggy. “But you and I both know that some time you’re going to have to deal with this, whatever it is, whether you like it or not. It’s not a sustainable way to live.”

“I’m fine,” said Matt. The words tasted ugly in his mouth.

“Your two favorite words,” said Foggy, quietly. “Ok, I’ll get back to work now. I know I’m not going to get any more out of this. Feel free to come to my office if you need.”

“What was the information you and Karen found when you called me this morning?” Matt asked when Foggy was on his way out the door.

“It was a dead end,” said Foggy in a hollow voice. “We aren’t any closer to figuring out Jeffrey’s killer than we were before. Focus on that arson case we’re defending on Tuesday. I think we all need a break from thinking about the dead kids.”

**********

_“Matt?” Someone touched his shoulder, startling him. Instinctively, Matt reached out to hit whoever it was that had snuck up on him. Luckily, Foggy got out of the way in time._

_“Oh. Foggy? Oh shit. Sorry.”_

_His voice sounded hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken in a very long time._

_“It’s ok, Matt. I’m sorry for sneaking up on you. Did you stay up all night?”_

_“What time is it?”_

_“Nine.”_

_Matt cracked his neck. “Yeah, I guess I did._

_“What did you even do all night, buddy? Midterms were over two days ago.”_

_Truthfully, Matt wasn’t sure. The hours had flown by in a haze, blending into each other until one became two became three became nothing and nowhere, bound only to time and space by his inconvenient flesh. He had needed to jumphitbreakrun all night. Despite this he hadn’t left his computer chair in twelve hours. Suddenly, the feeling was acute once more._

_“I must have gotten distracted. Get that way when I haven’t been to the gym in a while. Probably why I didn’t sleep either. I should probably go -” he said, standing up. The rest of his joints cracked too._

_“Now?”_

_“Well, after I change into my gym clothes,” said Matt facetiously._

_Foggy caught him by the elbow as he started to walk away. “You’re gonna run yourself ragged, Murdock. How about we go get pancakes instead?”_

_As if on cue, Matt’s stomach suddenly remembered that it was really, really hungry. It rumbled loudly._

_“Yeah, actually. Pancakes sound great.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO caring Foggy is best Foggy. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're super invested in the plot then sorry that none really happens in this chapter. I just thought this conversation was kind of. . .important for numerous reasons and I wanted to give it a space to breathe. Because the stories that suggest that bipolar disorder's highs aren't all euphoric fun and games are rare. This trope is ESPECIALLY bad when portraying bipolar ii because as hypomania is viewed as 'less serious' people who aren't bipolar seem to just think it is fun all the time, sort of like an extra superpower we get for being born bipolar. In reality it is definitively not. 
> 
> The truth is that hypomania often worries our friends and families, damages our relationships, causes us to act recklessly and dangerously, makes us not take care of ourselves, and can severely affect the quality of our work and our reputations in general. It is not always euphoria for most of us - many times it is irritable and downright miserable. It is an ugly thing that causes us pain whether or not we feel good at the time it is happening. And usually in some way we don't if you just ask.
> 
> So I guess if you're here reading and you don't have bipolar disorder I just want to extend a hand to you and ask that you think about the narratives that you're fed and think about who is writing them and why.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story hit 8000 words today which is ridiculous. Thank you for the comments, kudos, and subscriptions on my pet project.

In deference to professionalism, Matt didn’t go out that night. The stab wound was bigger than he had thought when he was high as a kite on adrenaline, and Foggy probably wouldn’t approve of him bleeding through his shirt in the courtroom on Tuesday. This had happened once before because he hadn’t allowed a wound to heal, and the scolding he received was quite memorable.

It seemed impossible that life could simply go on as usual while disabled children were being murdered. He paced back and forth in his apartment, head spinning with the injustice of it all. Furthermore, after the initial grief had dissipated, Matt could only focus on one major detail. Somehow he had missed the murder of this boy despite being on patrol. If he had been in his right mind, perhaps he could have saved Mark. Instead he had fallen into a haze so deep that he hardly even remember going to the ‘hospital.’ If he could just _sleep_ like a _normal person_ -

He punched at a wall with full force. Pain ricocheted up his arm, cleansing and steadying. He punched it again and then a third time and over and over and over. Blood was seeping from his knuckles down to his wrists. His throat was sore from his breath coming in stops and starts. Hitting his wall just wasn’t enough. Something needed to break; he needed to rip it apart with his bare hands and throw it on the ground. He ran his battered hands through his hair. Matt didn’t have very many possessions to smash up.

He stormed over to the kitchen, and yanked open the cupboards. Matt swiped his arm through them and knocked all the cans haphazardly on the floor. His only chair was thrown over the counter; a leg broke off of it. There was a wine bottle on top of his refrigerator. He grabbed it and violently smashed it against the linoleum. Shards of glass skittered this way and that, and the liquid sloshed on his face and all over his clothes. He was still wearing his nice dress pants, fuck fuck fuck -

Matt lowered himself down to the ground, shaking. The neck of the broken wine bottle rolled out of his loosening grip. The reality of what he had done set in. He had just destroyed his own house like some sort of a crazy person. Matt drew his knees up to his chest, careful to avoid shards of glass stabbing him in his bare feet. He wrapped his arms around his legs out of primitive urges for self-comfort which made him feel even crazier. If only the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen could see their Devil like this. They would never be frightened again.

Alongside his knuckles and small cuts on his feet, the wound on his back was also seeping blood. So much for an attempt at professionalism. The knowledge that Foggy would make an exception for this behavior if Matt just fessed up about the problems he was having was hateful. It would be easier to say that he got these injuries in a fight.

As though his friend could read his mind, Matt’s phone rang.

“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”

His phone was on the coffee table, but it felt like it was miles away.

“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”

If he didn’t answer his phone, Foggy would worry about him.

“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”

The phone went to voicemail. Shortly after, the burner phone started buzzing.

Matt let it ring.

**********

The sound of fast footsteps on the floor above his apartment woke Matt from his doze. As the man raced down the stairs, Matt tensed. Someone had broken into his apartment. He got to his feet, fists up. Then he realized the ‘intruder’ was Foggy. Somehow, that was worse.

“Foggy. . .?” he said, lowering his fists. His voice was hoarse.

“Matt, what happened?” he said in hushed tones. Matt had rarely heard Foggy sound so frightened.

“Uh. . .” He searched around in his hazy brain for an excuse. “Someone broke in?”

“Bullshit.” Foggy tentatively edged closer as though he might scare Matt off if he moved too fast. “What really happened?”

Something is very wrong with me. I destroyed my own house. i need help.

“I don’t know.” Not entirely a lie. He hung his head.

Foggy touched Matt’s palm with his fingers. “Can I?”

Matt gripped his hand. Foggy led him over to the couch, and sat him down. Then he went back over to the kitchen, grabbed something soft - a washcloth-, and ran it under the sink. He walked back over to the couch, and sat down next to Matt. Foggy guided Matt’s chin with his index finger to face him. He delicately pressed the damp cloth to Matt’s cheek, cleaning the gunk that was on his face. Normally, Matt would protest to this, saying that he could clean his own face, that he was fine. Tonight, he didn’t have it in him.

“Sometimes you make me feel like a Battlefield nurse,” murmured Foggy. Matt was too tired to laugh.

“How bad is it?”

“You look like you were at a wine tasting and a fight broke out.” He patted at Matt’s eyebrow and a surprising jolt of pain followed. Matt must have winced because Foggy said, “Sorry. I think there might be bits of glass in your face. God, Matt, you really did a number on yourself.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Matt mumbled.

“It’s ok, Matt. I’m not going to try to drag more information out of you when you’re like this. I know I’m not going to get anything.” He put the washcloth down on the coffee table with a soft squish. “Go take a shower, ok? Clear your head and clean up. We’ll talk after.”

As Matt walked numbly towards the bathroom, he heard the soft thump of Foggy resting his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep putting off plot to have feelings because I am self-indulgent.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments, kudoses, subscribes! I track/read them all and they warm my heart.
> 
> Warning for excessive crying in this chapter? FEELINGS AHOY.
> 
> A note: I'm thinking my update speed will be slower on my stories soon because I'm starting Seroquel tonight which is supposed to slow me down and focus me on like school and life and taking care of myself and generally not being hypomanic af.
> 
> Happy reading!

_“Matt, have you ever been tested for depression?”_

_Foggy’s voice aimed for casual, but his heart betrayed him. He was nervous about approaching Matt with this question. Matt’s mind flashed back to his sophomore year of undergrad when he had tested positive for ‘moderate depression.’ Instead of saying yes, Matt said, “Why?”_

_“Just, you know,” said Foggy, fidgeting. His legs were hanging over the edge of his bed and he was swinging them back and forth. In response, the bed was making tiny rhythmic creaking sounds. “You seem to be in your own head a lot.”_

_“I was tested for depression once when I was a sophomore in college. It didn’t find anything wrong with me,” Matt lied._

_He wasn’t dumb; depression was talked about so often on college campuses that he knew for certain his own was a problem. But he had fought, and fought hard, to outrun it and succeed. Accepting it, saying it out loud, meant acknowledging to someone else that yes they were right, yes this was messed up, yes he needed help._

_“Ok,” said Foggy. He didn’t sound convinced at all. Dammit. “Well, just let me know if you’re ever having a hard time. I wanna be there for you.”_

_“Thanks, man,” said Matt. He really meant it - those words had rarely been spoken to him before Foggy came into his life. It was difficult to evade them when he knew they were a gift. Foggy did really want to help, and any other person probably would have accepted it just fine. Unfortunately, the part of Matt that responded to any offering of assistance was a broken record. “Don’t worry about me, though. I’m fine.”_

**********

Matt’s body was very sticky, and it took several scrubbings for him to feel clean. The steam cleared his brain as if he had a head cold. He took his time rinsing and drying so that he could formulate what the hell he was going to say to Foggy. Despite all his stalling, he could come up with nothing to excuse away his behavior. He had wrecked his house because he couldn’t control himself, and Foggy had caught him in the obvious aftermath. There was no way out of this but the truth, which was something he struggled to accept even within himself.

He exited the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He shivered slightly at the temperature difference. Foggy threw some clothes at him (soft pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt, Matt’s favorite socks).

“Thanks,” said Matt.

“I didn’t want to have this conversation with you in a towel,” said Foggy.

Matt went off to his room to change. The comfortable clothes were a welcome change after several hours in sticky dress pants. He went out to the living room and sat back down on the couch. There was a long, awkward pause before Foggy broke it by saying, “Before you get defensive, just know that I don’t want to have to talk about this either, ok? This sucks, and not just for you.” He exhaled a shaking breath. “I am really scared for you right now. Not like ‘superhero girlfriend’ scared but like ‘death of a family member’ scared.”

“I can take care of myself,” Matt protested.

“Then what the hell is this, Matt? You have a currently bleeding stab wound because you hadn’t slept for 48 hours before crime-fighting and your entire kitchen is trashed. The red wine on your floor makes it look like a murder scene. And the _actual blood_ mixed in with it is just the icing on the cake, really.”

Foggy was as scared as he claimed; his heart was nearly pounding out of his chest. Matt’s ever-present guilt welled up inside of him and spilled over into an apology.

“I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Don’t deflect, Matt. If you don’t take action, your guilt about this means nothing.”

Matt sighed. “I know this looks bad right now but if I just tried harder -”

“It wouldn’t make a difference and you know it. This isn’t just something you can will away. I don’t even think talking to a counselor would help, honestly. This is just. . .messed up.” He hung his head and shook it in upset. “You can’t keep going on like this. You’re going to end up dead in an alley.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You need to go to a doctor. A real one at a real hospital above the ground. And you need to tell the doctor at least part of the truth so that he or she can help you.”

“And if I don’t?”

Foggy rubbed his eyes out of tiredness. “Look, Matt. I’m not your mom. I know you’re an adult and you’re stubborn as shit and you don’t do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not going to punish you for not getting help. I wouldn’t even need to. If you don’t treat whatever this is voluntarily, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”

“You think so?” Matt asked quietly. The idea had never occurred to him; he had never felt that his problems were serious enough for that.

“Yeah. This is really serious.”

Matt hung his head. Tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to blink them back, but it didn’t work. They rolled down his face as he began to make embarrassing choked sobbing noises.

“Oh, shit, man. Come here.” Foggy pulled him into his arms. Matt continued crying into his shoulder. “It’s gonna be ok.”

Matt cried in Foggy’s arms for what felt like hours. For the first time since the age of fourteen, he allowed himself to unload the terrible weight of his mental illness onto someone who cared about him.


End file.
